Poetry

Poetry is the language of the soul, and each soul is unique, as is its muse. Therefore each poem is unique. If you are a poet, take pride in this. And congratulate yourself, especially today – for today is the World Poetry Day. On the occasion, Literature Studio is celebrating too. Here are some poems by poets hailing from different parts of India. Do take your time to read each poem and appreciate the individuality, for each poem is a different experience altogether. ***** The Woodcutter by Manu Das The last swing was without finality made, The log cleaved in two, in open halves fell apart, To the sudden stillness of unswung blade, As shadows grew, and men of labour began to depart. He leaned gently upon his axe, though, For all I could see he was straight and taut, Chest bare, heaving as it would before work unfinished, steady and slow, Not from weary winding down of breath and thought. I gave his day’s work a spiteful glance, Leaves that trembled and spoke to high winds, Seemed not to be leaves, lying still on the trunks fallen stance, No more to sway, or break falling rain, above the cuckoo’s wings. He gave me a forceful look, clear and, Unafraid of his disposition, drawing words to parry, “The wood within was sick, you must understand, There was no more life in it, no more strength to carry, The weight of this bark, in the coming rains.” I lent ear, then nodded, in quiet resign, “I have seen it as a sapling, young and eager, to grow. Its bough was straight, but then curved in design, All the better, to stand with time, then did I wager.” “Some start straight” said he in gruff return, “and bend with time, some start bent, And are straightened, by wind and sun, in turn, In the end I do what I must, before the day is spent.” He laid his palm, cracked and rough, Upon his axe, smooth in hilt, And went his way, having said enough, For the stars were out, and the porch light lit. I nudged the jagged stump, to see if it gave way, The root held its own, I shook my head, would it have stood if I had my say? Could I have stopped the wood cutters axe, had I known… About Manu Das: There is poetry created for its own sake, and that created as a means to face one’s life. In the latter, the spectrum ranges from sheer escapism to a conscious effort at drawing from experiences, however small, to create verse and derive a clarity of thought to forge ahead. In truth, I think the best of poems, or any creative effort, are combinations of both, in various degrees. I am a surgeon by profession, but I love poetry. It liberates us and in so doing imparts a gentle wisdom to reduce our fallibilities and persevere on the road to better things. ***** रड़क by Rohit Sharma होता है मिलन बारिश का पत्तों से मगर, रह जाती है रड़क कुछ दिल में बारिश के भी, पत्तों के भी ! बुझाती प्यास कुछ पत्तों के बदन की कुछ पिघल गए नरमाहट से इसकी, बरसता बेधड़क है हर बरस है जाता कहाँ नीर इसका ? प्यासी है मिट्टी भी रह जाती है रड़क कुछ दिल में बारिश के भी, ज़मीन के भी ! हुआ पानी क्यों नहीं मीठा समुन्दर की कड़वाहट का, ना गिला था बादलों से कोई था बरसा रिमझिम पानी भी रह जाती है रड़क कुछ दिल...